Family Ties
by Tea-Cub
Summary: Stay professional. Written from Gordon's POV.


Title: Family Ties

Summary: Stay professional. Written from Gordon's POV.

Author: EllieET

Rating: PG

Category: Angst.

Spoilers and setting: Pretty considerable for 'Terror in New York City'; it's actually set during this particular episode.

This is my first Thunderbirds fanfiction for nearly two years. Life had a few things in mind for me – good and bad – and so my ability to write fanfiction in general was somewhat put on hold… until now. I got the idea for this one at University (in a lecture, I think) and wrote it before Christmas; however, it is unbeta'd and I will gladly welcome honest feedback because I like to know my strengths and weaknesses in the world of writing. I am considering a sequel, but that's up to the readers.

* * *

Family Ties

I can't believe I actually agreed to this.

Standing inside the cabin of a vessel that my brothers and I once admired greatly, I nearly laugh at the irony – the sick, twisting irony of it all – that the only way to get on here was because of a casualty that this thing itself caused. But I then glance at the man who nearly damaged my family – our family – and the bitter laugh dies in my throat.

A week ago, my brothers and I would have given anything to ride in the USN Sentinel; the 'ship of greased lightening' as Alan quipped recently. Everything we heard about it – via the tabloids, the news and various radio transmissions that John played over the intercom from Thunderbird 5 for our personal listening-pleasure – made us drool with delight, to discuss it as the hot topic and I swear we were all two minutes away from pleading with Dad to ring the Navy and bribe them into letting us ride on the vessel during its next fleet-exercise.

But since then, the high opinion of this vessel has very much sobered in our household; none of us are really that impressed by it anymore. And I've got to say, it feels rather unfair that I've been pushed into this because this is the very last place – on earth, sky and sea – that I want to be. To me, this ship is now a danger to anyone and anything with a pulse and a memory – or maybe it's the man in charge I have to be afraid of, the Commander of the Sentinel.

After all, this is the man who, just a few days ago, nearly killed my brother.

Of course, it's not supposed to sound like that if you apply it to the terms of the Navy – and I should know this, having been a member of the World Aquanaut Security Patrol myself – but when you break it down, tear away the layers of security, of necessary sacrifice, of professionalism, that is exactly what this precise situation is.

Of course, I guess the Commander doesn't see it like that – or maybe he does, it's kind of hard to tell. The brisk handshake and brief conversation he offered when I came aboard on Thunderbird Four an hour or so ago didn't offer much personal information about the guy himself, just the outward necessities of being a Commander. I never took much time to dedicate myself to character code reading but I can't help but wonder… is there any sense of guilt beneath that obviously toffee-hard-have-to-use-a-hammer-to-break-it exterior? (Great, now on top of everything else, I have a craving for some of Grandma's toffee).

It drives me crazy, ruminating like this but at the same time, I can't help myself, you know? Especially when there's not much else to do except sit and twiddle my thumbs while waiting to get to New York. A bad excuse, I know – but I honestly don't think I can stop thinking; that's a paradox if ever I heard one.

…And to think I used to tease Virgil and John for being such pensive fellows.

It's just… from where I'm standing, this Commander fellow seems to think that the terror he put Virgil through was just an error of judgement, a simple mistake in attempting to protect civilisation as of course he is supposed to do. I guess I should know, because that's my job as well.

And I know if Dad found out what I was thinking right now, I'd get a lecture on the very meaning of professionalism: _'You have two lives to save, Gordon! What matters now is getting to New York with your body and mind focused on the job in hand! You can't think about anything else at such a critical time, not when you're a member of International Rescue who is on duty!_

And I know that. But the problem is that I never even realised how hard this would be until I met the Commander face-to-face. Then things became a little bit more complicated than they already were and still are. After all, has _Dad_ ever been in such close quarters with the would-be murderer of a family-member?

Thing is, when I change into my uniform, I change in myself. Suddenly, I'm not the fourth Tracy brother, the second-youngest, the troublemaker, the boy who splashed in the bath with a vengeance, the man who puts a private message in a bottle and throws it into the sea once a year on the anniversary of my Mum's death. I'm flipping over, I'm turning 180 degrees, I'm taking off the glasses to transform into the red and blue tights and cape… and yeah, I guess you get the idea. Basically, I transform into another part of me.

It's the same with my brothers; they're still the same people, obviously and so am I but when we're on a mission, we become colleagues, _not_ brothers. We become caught in a bubble of the most peculiar nature, where potential danger lurks around every corner, where particular strengths must be used and certain weaknesses must be conquered. The closest we can come to being brothers again is to tell each other to be careful; you can't relax, you can't reminisce about childhood, you can't laugh when faced with a dangerous situation. You can only mask your personal feelings in order to save families just like ours and that's alright, because we have a job to do after all and hey, we're proud to do it. It feels a little weird sometimes but it's okay.

But when it comes down to it, it's hard – for someone like me, anyway – to shut off every single emotion because despite everything we do, aren't we just five normal guys?

What happens if one of our own ends up dying on duty? How are we supposed to react then? Virgil's ordeal earlier this week has shown me that it's not just the danger of the rescues themselves that we have to fear; it's also the unique nature of our organisation that attracts curiousity and attention, attention we don't want but can't escape. Virgil's craft was shot down because 'it was unrecognisable as either a friend or foe' – or so the Commander said when we conversed before – and I immediately spotted the key problem with that sentence and it stayed with me and I couldn't shake it off. I still can't. It stood out in my mind like a full-beam headlight in the dark night, like a green rabbit in a colony of brown, like a giant turtle among a family of small tortoises.

After all, I might not be the smartest guy around, but the last time I checked, Virgil was a "he" and most definitely _not_ an "it." I wonder if the Commander would still stand by what he said if he could see for himself the state of Thunderbird Two – and see Dad's horrified face – as it crash-landed on the island, narrowly missing the sea.

I wonder now if the Commander was taking a moment to subtly apologise and justify his actions at the same time – actually, I know he was because I've seen his type before in WASP. But I never really let the senior members with the firm tones and lack of emotion get to me before. I'm curious as to whether this guy even has a brother, or maybe even a sister, a family to call his own.

Of course, maybe I'm just being dramatic. In fact, it's obvious that that's all I'm really being and I know that Virgil would be furious with me for letting such an attitude get in the way of where my attention should really be focused: saving a life. This was, after all, his idea and I cringe as I consider the look on his face if he knew what I was thinking. He hasn't spoken much to me about his brush with death, but I saw it with my own eyes. I saw Thunderbird Two burning. Tin-Tin, Dad, Alan, Scott and I – we all experienced one feeling, that question in our minds whether or _not _Virgil was going to be okay.

And it feels terrible that I'm letting something like this affect me when _he_ was the one in the hot-seat. It makes me feel… different. Separate. Unique, in a bad way.

Claustrophobia creeps into my system and it feels strange, unnatural and very, very alarming. I've gone underwater in Thunderbird 4 numerous times and I know how to handle small spaces so now this feeling of panic is scaring me.

I can't deal with it and I know I shouldn't have to in the first place. It's my own fault I feel like this because I shouldn't have been thinking so deeply. Bearing this in mind, I turn away and look out of the cabin window, out towards the sea, watching the sun shine on the waters, taking quiet, calming breaths. I stare longingly at the shimmering surface, wishing it could be physically possible to either swim all the way to New York in the cleansing water or else to get there alone in Thunderbird Four – small, reliable, safe – rather than have to stay in here.

There's too many reminders of what happened to Virgil on this vessel: not just the Commander who himself gave the order to fire, but his own colleagues who stood beside him and helped him decide on elimination, the radar they used to track Virgil's innocent progress and the missiles that protrude so threateningly from their launchers, ready to shoot down the next unsuspecting victim.

I feel like I've wandered straight into the lion's den even before I've reached the danger-zone. That's crazy.

Suddenly it's all too much. My hands feel clammy, my legs ready to give way, my unnaturally heavy mind ready to shut down as a response to this mental anguish and in an attempt to keep calm, I keep my eyes trained on the ocean.

Relax, it'll be alright, I tell myself. I'll be out of here before I know it. Soon I'll back under the surface, in a place I know well and I'll get the job done and then I'll be able to go home to my family. And hey, I won't be on my own; Scott will be on the radio to help me out. It'll be okay.

The thought of being back in my good old reliable submarine comforts me for a few seconds. But then I can hear words inside my head – a language of rage that is silently loud – and with a sinking heart (pun right there, look) I realise that right now, Gordon Tracy, the International Rescue Operative and Pilot of Thunderbird Four… he's not all there. Something else that's also me – Gordon, the brother – is screaming inside, crying out with words I don't think I can ignore, that I'm ashamed to admit I want to say.

_He's not just something you can shoot missiles at on the fifty-fifty chance that he might be an enemy! He's a living, breathing human-being, full of life! He's my BROTHER._

I have to stop this.

_You absolute… no matter how you try to explain with that stupid know-it-all voice of yours, that raised head like you've done nothing wrong –_

I have got to stop this right now.

The Commander is trying to help, I reason firmly with my inner-child. He's trying to make up for what he did. He welcomed me aboard, brought me to the cabin, acted like he was supposed to (which is more than I can say for myself right now), told me to be so kind as to abide by the rules of the Sentinel for as long as I'm on it -

_- and you have the GALL to try to tell me what to do on the very vessel that you used to try to murder my older brother! If you only knew –_

Stop. Please. Now.

_- how many tears he'd wiped away, how many reassuring smiles he'd given, how many pictures he'd painted, how many tunes he played –_

No more.

_- then would you have attacked him when he'd done nothing to you, you – _

I rest my forehead against the window in mental agony, trying to resist the urge to keel over and throw up as a response to the pressure I'm under. But it makes me feel so weak at the same time because I've never been like this before, _never._ I want to save Ned Cook and his cameraman, sure, but I just don't want to be _here._ I want to get to New York now, solve the problem and then just go home. I want to go back and sit by Virgil's bedside with Scott and Alan and John and confess, to apologise for being like this and to have one of those big deep conversations that all siblings have got to have at some point or another.

Does that make me a coward?

The claustrophobia hits in fresh waves and I try my hardest not to slide down the wall. My head is just aching from all this thinking and I can't help but feel that the weight of a hundred-and-one hard, stone-cold apple-pies have settled on my shoulders. Being on this vessel really isn't ideal for a variety of reasons: I feel tense from all the waiting, wishing I could just be in New York right this minute, if not sooner. There's also a certain chill in the air and it brings a cold ache to my stomach that's worsened by short bouts of sleep.

'Excuse me, sir?' the Commander's voice, brisk as ever, cuts into my thoughts and I turn, slightly startled, to stare into his cold eyes (Am I scowling at him? His pupils shift away for a second before coming back to rest on mine).

'Are you still with us?'

I stare at him, at his impassive, stony face and allow myself a few seconds to think.

_– Killer._

I could run at him, screaming all these things – all the things that my inner-self is imploring me to say. I could beat him with my fists, just to hurt, just to inflict as much physical pain as possible, like when I was ten and facing up to school-bullies, hat falling down, my hair ruffling, revealing myself as the angry young boy whom even now I can't fully suppress.

And then I'll promptly get myself chucked – perhaps quite literally – off this vessel of doom and so Ned and Joe will be left to their watery fate with no-one to save them because this is the only way I can help, the only way that they can _be _helped. It's a cruel twist of fate but it all comes back to the same thing and I just can't keep thinking like this over and over again.

So I nod back in response to the Commander's question.

'Yeah. Yeah, I am.'

The Commander gives a quick nod and turns away, seemingly unaware of my inner-anguish. I close my eyes briefly, feeling an odd combination of emotions – relief and triumph that I didn't give in and just do it and yet a sense of disappointment. After all, can't the Commander ask a few more questions other than a brief enquiry about Virgil's welfare? _  
_

But I know he can't because he has a job to do and I can't either because at the end of the day, so do I.

So I ignore the hurt face of the boy in my mind and focus on the controlled face of the man, me, whom now on which everyone and everything is depending. And if I let myself go… I don't know how much damage I'll do: to myself, to the Commander and most significantly, to Ned and Joe. They're the important ones in this equation and I can't let them down. After all, worrying never got anyone anywhere and it certainly won't help me, let alone those I'm doing this for. I've got to get myself back together, to be emotionally fit for my role in this rescue and not waste my time sitting in corners plotting idiotic, pointless attacks on senior members of the Navy – even if they have hurt my brother.

I shrug my shoulders and swallow hard in a physical attempt to pull myself together. I won't fail, I won't let them down – I swear. As if to confirm this to myself I glance up and offer a tight smile to match that of the Commander's as he takes another look at me and then orders a colleague to bring me a cup of coffee.

'Now you're talking my language,' I accept the offer of what could just be the necessary olive-branch for the sake of everyone involved because really, there's nothing else I can do now except to save the people who need to be saved. And if I let these personal feelings overwhelm me, then that's it for Ned and Joe.

After all, what else can I do now, except wait to commit to my own, crucial role in the rescue-plan? It's like Dad says and has always said, to me, to Scott, to Virgil, to Alan and to John:

_Stay professional. _

And right now, that's all I need to save a life.

*

Fin


End file.
